Vanilla and Chocolate
by Zelz Saihitei
Summary: They were like vanilla and chocolate but she was always changing her mind. [femmeslash]
1. prologue

Yes, it's like I've come back from the dead. More like fluttered away and had life vomit all over me.

-------

**Vanilla and Chocolate: prologue**

They were like vanilla and chocolate; though who was what was up for debate. Sometimes she was dark, sensual and bittersweet. But sometimes she was bright, smooth, easy-going. And sometimes everything was messed up, and all they could tell was that they were together, co-existing in the same plane, somewhere off from everyone else.

Either way, it was confusing. The transitions from summer to school and back again were hard, simply because it was always changing. She was always changing her mind.

Like waiting up, sullen and sulking, in the bed until Hermione came from a midnight stroll with Harry and Ron. Her auburn hair would be hanging in front of her face, until Hermione would gently push it away – and even then, she would hide again, unwilling to face up to her own ambivalence.

"I missed you," Ginny would say in these moments, cupping Hermione's face with her hands. Hermione was always scared to blink; Ginny would stare into her eyes until everything else faded away, but never let the moment hang. She wasn't one for seriousness. And when they would drift off to sleep, Hermione would wonder if Ginny even knew what love was.

Summers were for Hermione, when she could be a little bit of vanilla. She read for pleasure and caved into the peer pressure of perpetual procrastination, most of the time spending her evenings with everyone gathered, watching the stars come out and talking quietly about things that didn't quite matter. The small creek just across the field and hidden by a small patch of trees held nights of getting high under the stars, Fred and George packing pipes like pros and entertaining them all with stories of their altered states. But Ginny would always get bored.

"Come on," she would whisper, tugging on Hermione's shirt gently. "Let's go."

Going would stop just through the trees; jelly legs would bring them down in a heap of sweat-sticky skin. Ginny would reposition their bodies until she was laying half-on Hermione, half-off, hovering over her face, sometimes too close.

"Ginny?" Hermione would mumble, stroking her cheek. "Do you like me?"

She would feel the grin first under her fingers, and the nod of her head. "I really like you, Hermione," Ginny would reply. Start bending her neck; hesitate; and then her lips would graze across Hermione's cheek in a sensual, innocent press. No matter how chaste, it lit fires in Hermione's body.

Fires that would disappear once they returned to the group. Ginny would loosen her grip on Hermione's arm and fall into Harry's arms, who was so stoned he could barely catch her. They'd flirt shamelessly: or, rather, _Ginny_ would flirt shamelessly, and Harry would obliviously volley compliments and friendly affection. And so Hermione would be chocolate again – high-strung, bittersweet, dark with jealousy.

School was for everyone else. She went through boys like Halloween candy, spoiling her dinner, ignoring the sweet smells of cherry-and-almond. She liked to think that she was the right thing for Ginny, that maybe somehow, she could show her what love is and they could be happy together – fairytale ending. It was just unfortunate that Hermione was so unsure of what, exactly, they were – friends didn't snog, but lovers didn't date other people (without permission); but then that didn't make them either, and that sent her deeper into a depression that wouldn't break until Ginny approached her with bright eyes and a big grin, demanding that they share an armchair and read together, Ginny's head snuggled against Hermione's chest. (How didn't she hear the fast beating?)

How didn't she notice?


	2. in the alley

**You've waited for so long -- and here it is! I hope it was worth the wait. This is being posted specifically for Jezebel's birthday. Happy birthday, dear. I hope you enjoy it (even if it's not the happiest thing ever).**

**By the way, you all know I don't own these characters. But they sure are fun to write about. Feedback is appreciated.****  
**

Hermione could feel it in her heart when the seasons were changing. Even before their letters for school arrived, she noticed the change in the wind, in the way Ginny looked at her. There was a sad distance in her gaze that could not be reconciled, telling Hermione that for all their traveling, the path was just a huge circle, and once again she was left with an empty hand and a heavy heart.

The strangest thing was the way that Ginny clung to her then. They spent more time together at the end of the summer than they had in the month that Hermione had been there; she had given up spending a vacation in France to be with her wayward love, and only now did that seem to matter to Ginny. They took long walks together, laid together in the warm sun, the freckles on their shoulders kissing gently. Then when the sun went down, they made out with millions of stars as their witnesses, and no human in sight. No one to catch them and know.

Had Hermione thrown herself into this cycle willingly? It was only last summer that they had first linked fingers in more than just friendship. Hermione had felt her face grow hot and noticed the same heat on Ginny's face at their contact; it was later that night that they had first kissed, a chaste experiment that had led to scattered, but increasingly more frequent trials, intensity rising. It had left Hermione feeling empty and starved. She had always wanted to beg for more, but was uncertain as to what Ginny would say. Even then, especially then, their relationship was unclear.

What was she to Ginny? Hermione pondered this almost constantly, especially once school started last year. Suddenly, she had gone from sweet kisses and suggestive flirtations and secret nights under the stars to just another friend, just another object. They didn't talk about what had happened over the summer. They didn't kiss or sleep almost naked together in a bed. In fact, Ginny rarely came to Hermione's room that year; and when she did, they kept the door open.

But god, the flirtations. How often Ginny, upon noticing that all the armchairs were taken, would immediately turn on the charm and share Hermione's, their limbs tangled haphazardly together as they both wrestled with parchment and books. At first, it had slightly annoyed Hermione. After all, she was far more interested in her studies than Ginny was in hers, so what was even the point of Ginny pretending? And then it hit her: maybe Ginny wanted to be with her. Hermione had played with the idea for a day or two, sat back and enjoyed the warmth of Ginny heating her skin, even as her quill shook and she stained her robes even further with ink. If Ginny wanted it, why not?

Hermione found herself justifying everything by what Ginny wanted. Ginny wanted to hold her hand – and then she didn't. That was fine. It was what Ginny wanted.

Ginny wanted to fondle Hermione's thighs, caressing the taut skin stretched across her hip bones, teasing her with sensual promises, teasing her with a devilish grin – and then she would pretend it never happened. That, too, was all right. Why wouldn't it be?

And yet Hermione was frightened of the yo-yo, frightened of the string in her back. Just as she thought Ginny was firmly in her embrace, an invisible force would tug her away again and leave Hermione to lick the wounds on her bleeding heart. And even though she told herself to keep her distance, to not run off with Ginny in Diagon Alley once they were lost in the crowd, some things just couldn't be helped. It was what Ginny wanted.

"Back here," Ginny said quietly. Hermione could barely hear the girl over the noise of other people out shopping, but Ginny kept a firm grip on her hand as they went behind Ollivander's, the darkest corner alley that could be found.

"Ginny, what are you--" Hermione's question was bit off by a warm mouth on hers. Ginny tasted like dark chocolate and cinnamon, like the chocolates they had eaten before they had left that morning. Hermione felt herself get pressed up against the building, but couldn't feel the brick – all she could feel was Ginny's warm body on hers, the summer sun making them both sticky and hot.

There would be no thinking here, no great logic to determine the alignment of their actions. Their kisses were hard and desperate like the summer sun, like chocolate melting in their mouths, melting like Hermione under Ginny's capable hands. They slipped through the clinging fabric of Hermione's shirt and played with the hardened jewels there; they traveled up her golden thighs and Hermione could feel Ginny's triumphant grin in between their kisses, the gratefulness of her fingers for Hermione's short skirt. They traced Hermione's sweat-slick skin, barely fumbling past the confines of her panties for prize beyond. The contact made Hermione's knees buckle, and Ginny quickly reacted, grinning against Hermione's collarbone as she supported the passion-delirious brunette.

This is hardly what Hermione would have wanted for her first time with Ginny, in retrospect: hard, hot brick digging into her back, leaving criss-cross patterns that would last for hours; the crowd of Diagon Alley droning in Hermione's ears like a huge colony of bees, drowning out her own moans of pleasure; and, of course, the impending possibility of getting –

"What choo girls doin' down there?" came a questioning, rude voice from the mouth of the alley. It was, thankfully, an unfamiliar voice, but it ruined everything – roughly, Ginny's hands left Hermione's skin, pushing her further against the brick wall. The redhead looked panicked by the intrusion; it was the same look she had when they heard a twig snap near their hiding places, but instead of turning red, Ginny's face was paler than the moon.

"Just – just talking!" Hermione called back in a stricken, breathless voice. Her eyes could barely focus past where she and Ginny were; the young man at the mouth of the alley looked just barely older than herself, but she couldn't define any characteristics of him. He glared down their way and said something about how they shouldn't hang around down there, but quickly made his way back to his work, so there was no way for her to get a better look of him. Did it really matter, anyway? No matter who he was, he had ruined the closest she had ever gotten to –

"Come on, we better get back to Mum," Ginny said tonelessly. Her eyes never met Hermione's, but stayed glued to the sun-soaked street at their feet. Hermione wished there could be some magic to make the redhead look at her at that moment. Was it disappointment, dejection in Ginny's voice? Her skin was still pale, so different from the flushed skin as her fingers had come so dangerously close to Hermione's sweet demise. Did Ginny really share her feelings about this moment?

Did she dare ask?

"Ginny--" Hermione began, but quickly swallowed her words, tasting bitter, semisweet chocolate on her tongue. Ginny had already made it to the mouth of the alley, and had just paused to turn around, look at the brunette she had left against the wall, scrapes burning underneath her shirt.

But the dejected look of barely a minute ago was gone, replaced by that sweet vanilla smile, full of devilish innocence and charm. "Aren't you coming?" Ginny called. "We should find them before they miss us too much. You know how Mum worries about us on our own."

Hermione felt like she had been punched in the stomach. How could someone go from such lovely pleasure to such despair? She felt like a forgotten ice cream cone sitting in the sun, dropped in a moment of surprise and discarded for something newer, better, and Ginny was on her way to go find it right now. Hermione knew, with a cold certainty that beat away the summer heat, that her chances of getting this moment back were slim to nothing, leaning quite a bit closer to 'nothing'.

Ginny was willing to forget it had ever happened; Hermione could see it in her eyes, even from here, in the way they still refused to connect with her own. And what could Hermione do but pretend that she would forget about it as well? If she refused to play by the rules, the game would be over, and Ginny would be gone – just another face in the crowd, just another missed opportunity. She needed Ginny to be by her side. She needed Ginny to be, at the very least, within her reach.

That's why, just as she saw Ginny's smile about to falter, Hermione forced one on her face. It didn't matter that she felt her heart in pieces in her chest; as long as she could keep Ginny close to her that would be good enough.

_For now._


	3. breakfast

**And because you were all so patiently waiting, here's two chapters for the price of one. Now don't you feel special? Leave me comments, kthx.**

They were like light and dark that morning. Ginny sat on Hermione's bed, chattering lazily while Hermione tried to put up her hair. The thick waves were getting tangled between her fingers as she tried to twist them into a submissive bun, but they mutinied against her, instead choosing to stick out from every little discrepancy.

"Do you think Harry will be at breakfast on time?" Ginny asked anxiously all of a sudden. "I hope so… I wore this shirt specifically because it shows off my breasts…"

Her fingers tugged harshly. She winced and closed her eyes against the onslaught of bitterness in her chest, because the idea of Ginny's breasts had kept in her the shower for an extra fifteen minutes.

"That's nice," she replied dully, refusing to betray any sense of emotion. She needed to get over this schoolgirl crush; get over yearning, wanting, and needing her cinnamon-goddess. She was just a tease. She didn't know what she wanted.

From the mirror, she could see Ginny pout. "Well, don't you think so?" She repositioned herself to show them off, caressing them playfully with her hands.

Seeing what she couldn't have only made Hermione irritable. She resisted the urge to stare and tore her eyes away, decided to focus on the sharpness of her eyes and the slight quiver to her chin. She _would_ win against her hair.

"Hermione?"

There was the rustle of sheets being moved and weight being displaced, transferring to the carpet, across the distance. She saw Ginny's red hair and blue eyes and the worried curve to her mouth.

"Did I do something wrong?"

Ginny placed her hand upon Hermione's shoulder blade. Hermione sighed lightly at the sudden warmth, feeling it heavy in her heart, like an old bullet wound twitching. She was tired, she realized, from too many late nights debating on whether or not Ginny liked her _like that_, or if she just liked being affectionate because they were such good friends. Whenever she thought she had the answer, yes or no or not in her wildest dreams, Ginny would surprise her.

Hermione thought about speaking up, finally, but changed her mind just as she drew in breath. Instead, she sighed, wasting meaningful words, and started over. "No, Gin, I'm just tired."

Ginny nodded a little thoughtfully before placing a kiss on the nape of her neck. "Your hair looks nice," she said softly, and Hermione could feel her lips shaping the words on her skin.

Hermione looked at herself in the mirror while Ginny rested her head against her shoulder blades, off in her own little world. Her milk-chocolate hair was frizzy from her shower, but she had managed to make her bun look good, if not borderline haphazard. Her summer freckles were fading, and the only hint of them was small dots only slightly darker than her natural skin tone. She was a little plain, maybe, but still pretty. Still attractive.

"Maybe not nice enough," she mumbled to herself, looking away.

"Hm?" Ginny asked, looking up and into the mirror. Her eyes still looked a little glazed from zoning. "What did you say?"

Hermione turned her head – their noses touched. Despite how sad Ginny made her, she still couldn't help but smile at the contact. "I said, maybe it's time we went."

Ginny nodded, rubbing their noses together. "Okay," she said, and gave Hermione a quick kiss. "But only if I can sit next to you."

The redhead bounced away, pausing in the doorway to wiggle her bum at Hermione, one eyebrow quirked. She grinned broadly when Hermione laughed and started down the stairs towards the common room.

As Hermione closed the door and locked it, she couldn't help but shake her head and laugh, feeling confused and content all at the same time. "God dammit, Ginny."

The breakfast tables were lazily laughing together when they arrived. Ginny had been holding her hand down most of the hallway, but once her prince with shaggy hair was visible, Hermione's hand was discarded and left to hang limply at her side. She rolled her eyes a little, stung, but dutifully took her seat between two redheads: one, the object of her affection, the other, the one who wished he had her but, upon discovering his attempts were fruitless, moved onto blonder things.

She scooped some scrambled eggs onto her plate and diligently buttered her toast as she tried not to listen to Ginny's flirtations.

"Harry, really, don't ever cut your hair, it's gorgeous." Even out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ginny's hand reach up and finger the dark strands, and decided to not eat the rest of her eggs. To distract herself, she glanced over at Ron, who was staring into his plate as if it would give him the answers to the universe.

"Sleep well, Ronald?" she asked lightly.

He grunted, rubbing his eyes into even more of a mess of bloodshot and purple. "Lavender and I got into a fight last night," he sighed heftily.

Hermione resisted the urge to rub her temples in frustration. This is not what she needed so early in the morning, so enamored and so ignored. "Oh, that's too bad."

"I mean, who really cares if I ride my broomstick fast? It's my broom, it's my life, and I'm not going to get hurt…" His rant continued into a low mumble, slowly drifting off into self-discovery of his own blockheadedness. "Maybe I _am_ just a big git…"

Had Ginny said anything to her this entire time? She looked to the other side of her, to find Ginny snuggling a little too close into Harry's chest. Her stomach lurched, and she promptly tossed the remainder of her toast back onto her plate. Who could eat, with a clueless oaf on one side, and a clueless flirt on the other? And then there was Harry, who didn't know anything about anything besides flying broomsticks and getting into trouble. He didn't even do anything remarkable by himself – she had been there when he completed the Patronus charm and saved himself and Sirius – she had even been the one with the capabilities to go back in time in the first place! What did Harry have? A pretty face? An interesting scar? And what did she have?

Brains, books, and a frizzy bun: nothing even remotely interesting to offer the girl of everyone's desires, including hers. And it was frustrating her to tears; she could feel them deep in her chest. She needed to get away and back to her room before anyone could go back to the common room and see her start to fall apart.

"Hermione!" She stopped dead in her tracks, ashamed at being caught and hopeful at Ginny actually noticing her departure. "What the hell?"

Hermione turned, blinking back tears carefully so Ginny wouldn't see. The redhead looked flustered and irritated, as if Hermione had broken some kind of ethical code – and maybe she had, according to the Illogical Book of Conduct According to Ginny Weasley, which Hermione had tried to read and failed to comprehend.

"What's wrong?" Ginny asked, maybe noticing a glint of wet in her left eye. Hermione looked away, chastising it in her head. "'Mione…"

"I'm just tired, Gin," Hermione replied sharply, surprised at her own irritation shining through. She was usually one to keep her cool, but there was something about today that made it difficult to control. Probably from too many hopeful daydreams of them being together whilst reading or homework, tasks that, generally speaking, didn't require a whole lot of her attention. In fact, she was about to get sucked into one again, before she realized that Ginny was still staring at her with concerned puppy eyes and she had yet to move. Hermione sighed. "I'll see you later." Without waiting for a reaction, she turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway.


	4. bitter

**Yeah, I bet you were expecting something long, like the other chapters... But this story just isn't happening like that. Still, I hope you enjoy, and don't hate me too much.**

**Vanilla & Chocolate: chapter three **

They were both like chocolate that night: bitter and hard to swallow. Confessions were on her tongue and melting, but she refused to tell – just swallowed, kept them to herself, no matter how difficult they were to bear. Ginny kept her distance but wasn't really talking to anyone, instead, stayed tucked in the middle of the fray and stealing glances Hermione's way every once and a while. Hermione couldn't really read her face; it was a strange combination of fear, yearning, and darkness. For her part, the brunette was silently reading, staring into the fire whenever the text began to blur and let her mind wander in the flames, wondering about love and losing it before you even had it.

Because what did they even have? They kissed chastely, held hands for brief moments, and shared the same bed mostly naked without having sex. Ginny liked the feeling of skin, she claimed, and cuddled up close, curled into Hermione's body; and Hermione would hold her close, arm under her breasts, feeling the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, wondering why she didn't have the courage to move her hand just a little to initiate anything, spark the fire and see what would go up in flames. What was she afraid of after all?

_Losing everything,_ she thought grimly, looking towards the redhead with a longing expression on her face. The sadness crept in then, a small animal crawling inside her body to die slowly, the decay spreading throughout her limbs until sometimes it hurt to breathe or move at all. Maybe she could be happy with just what they had if it meant losing the little that was there otherwise.

_Maybe_.


	5. boy wonder

**Yeah, another short one. But I liked this style better for this story. Hope you're still staying with me. Let me know how I'm doing.**

It seemed that the days never quite ended when Ginny wasn't there. Hermione hovered like an uncertain moth in the corner by the fire, waiting for those eyes to graze her hands or face, a smirk or smile of acknowledgment. But nothing ever came. Nights passed; they didn't speak. Meanwhile, Ginny would snuggle up close to Harry and laugh when Ron would stiffen in brotherly defense.

"It's only Harry," Hermione would hear her say, grinning.

But no, Hermione knew better. Harry wasn't _only_ Harry – he was incapable of being just himself, just a boy. Because no longer was he just a boy. He was Ginny's boy, and everyone knew it.

Everyone, of course, except the Boy Wonder himself. The magnificent hero over dragons and dark wizards was still in the dark when it came to Ginny's advances. Hermione was unclear on whether to feel relieved or punch him. Black-eyes were usually responsible for clearer sight. But thus far, she stayed silent and darker than the purest chocolate, while Ginny stayed light and careless with so many hearts in the balance.

Hermione stole a glance at the redhead and her insides rolled over. Their hands were linked. She stared down at her own hands, the nails chipped down and her fingertips dotted with ink: a permanent reminder of her single existence. Too many late nights spent writing essays instead of spending them with a lover. It hadn't bothered her until Ginny came along.

But what would waiting for Ginny bring her? It was a pointless endeavor that had left her heartbroken and hollowed out. Maybe it was time to rip open the wound, show it to her, and watch it slowly heal, knowing that it was done with.

The hell with them. To hell with their inability to care. To hell with their oblivious romances; their sunken, sleepless eyes. What did any of this have to do with anything? She needed to get on with her life. She needed to get over Ginny Weasley.

She looked up again, drawing in swift breath and preparing her speech in one fluid motion, only to find that all her plans were for nothing. The "lovers" were gone, leaving frustration and the taste of dark chocolate in the back of her throat. She thought she was going to be sick.


	6. sharp quills

**Even more angsty, angry, bitter Hermione. Who doesn't love it? (If you do or don't, leave a message.)**

Hermione's surly, uncomfortable state of existence didn't dissipate. Rather, it festered and infected every aspect of her life, creating a dark haze around her world that couldn't be cut through or ignored. There were numerous times in which Hermione, Harry and Ginny would all be occupying the same space, but after that first attempt was so suddenly failed, she lacked the courage to say what she needed to say. She found herself reciting them in her sleep, copying them down on spare sheets of parchment, within the margins of her notes and on her essays (in which case, she would hastily scribble it away).

_I love you, Ginny. But you don't seem to feel the same way. So I'm letting you go._

Ginny and Harry never officially announced their relationship; in fact, it seemed hanging on a wire instead of definitely perched, because Ginny's attitude towards other boys never faltered, and Harry only seemed mildly uncomfortable with it. They probably weren't having sex, Hermione decided darkly, meaning that by Ginny's standards, it wasn't serious, and by Harry's standards, it wasn't real. Because she was a girl in love with the chase and he was a boy unaware of the real state of relationships (and a penis-thinker): all he saw was a pretty girl who wasn't just after him because of his celebrity status.

It was fucking obnoxious. Their presence together ripped through her parchment essays; she would rewrite them with an even sharper quill. When she made a particularly bad move on her part, she would notice Ginny flinch in the corner of her eye, like she felt the pen wound against her skin. Once or twice, it seemed like Ginny wanted to say something, but didn't. Hermione pushed it aside, deciding to overlook it for her own sanity.

Because, after all, she was just another one of Ginny's games outgrown and covered in dirt. It had been far too long since they last talked. Hermione, more than anything else, carried that in her heart as a bruise that grew with every day that passed. But maybe Ginny was scared, too.

She hadn't been completely abandoned, however; Ron somehow still seemed to remember the importance of friendship. It was too bad that her foul mood left a bitter taste in his mouth, too. After only a few nights of him sitting next to her while she sulked and stormed in her head, snapping at him in response to his statements, he gave up.

"I didn't do anything to you," he growled, the suddenness of his movements causing a few of her parchments to go fluttering away. "So don't take it out on me. I'm not the one destroying your life."

He had been her last friend, but at least he had had the decency to snap at Ginny and Harry before storming off to bed. In some respect, it made her feel a little better about his absence.


	7. ash

**It's really been forever, hasn't it? I appreciate your patience as I've been struggling with life, writer's block, and school. I really am going to try harder to get this finished before you all lose interest. Thanks to all who have stuck with it during my long-lasting hiatuses. You all are wonderful.**

The cold sting of winter kept all of Gryffindor close to the fire and away from the window, where buckets upon buckets of snow

The cold sting of winter kept all of Gryffindor close to the fire and away from the window, where buckets upon buckets of snow were tumbling and swirling to the ground like a crowd of boisterous drunks on New Year's Eve. Hermione was wrapped up comfortably in a blanket her grandmother had crocheted for her last Christmas, the burgundy wool and white snowflakes keeping her skin warm and heart in mostly good spirits. Winter break was coming soon, which meant a well-deserved break from all the worry and stress in her life, which mostly revolved around Ginny Weasley, and what she was going to do about her.

It had been exactly four weeks since they had last spoken. Hermione felt that absence like an icy wind blowing through her heart when she least expected it. Her sleep was troubled with images of Ginny and Harry, swirling abruptly to sticky summer nights at the Burrow and soft lips – and then wakefulness. Never an apology, a word, a resolution. Hermione went to class everyday with the heavy ghost of sleep weighing down on her chest, but her eyelids stayed resolutely open at all times.

Her parents had written to her about not going anywhere for vacation this year. Skiing in France was getting old, they said, and they would much rather spend her winter holidays happy in their own home. However, they understood if she wanted to spend a bit if not all of her holidays with her best friends. _No,_ Hermione wrote back, her quill feather pointing towards the three of them together just across the way, _I miss being at home. Let's all have a happy Christmas together._

Because Ron had been introduced back into their bundled friendship with ease. Being a hot-tempered git was just part of his nature, and Harry could never abandon the first person his age who was nice to him at Hogwarts. And it wasn't necessarily that they had abandoned her; they were "giving her space to do her work without interruption", as Harry had tried to put it so tactfully. Never mind that the amount of work she was getting done was noticeably less than what she was doing before this all happened, before the earth had rumbled and broken apart, leaving her stranded on a desolate shore with only a coconut radio to communicate her feelings. How did they get that to work without electricity, anyway? Was the professor a wizard?...

Hermione's eyelids drooped slightly as her mind began to wander away from the page and back to her cozy little room at home filled with bookcases and good light and far away from Ginny Weasley. She could see herself now sitting on the window sill, the dull glow of the winter sun illuminating something from her humble library, without any care in the world… And then maybe watch reruns of "Gilligan's Island" with the sweet smell of vanilla wafting from the kitchen…

"Hermione, watch it!" called a voice from the far-off distance, growing louder and closer like a train through a tunnel. Hermione could smell the smoke, but it wasn't the same as burning coal. It reminded her more of the smell of burning parchment and ink.

Jerked awake by this thought, Hermione leapt out of her chair wild-eyed and disoriented, her blanket crumpling in a heap at her feet, and she looked towards the fireplace with a sense of dread in the pit of her stomach. Her body had taken control and let her fingers slip, sending her midterm essay for Advanced Ancient Ruins straight into the fire. Four feet of parchment – now gone.

"_Aguamenti_," someone chanted nearby, dousing the fireplace and a few students within close proximity with water.

The accosted students screeched and ran, teeth shattering, out of the common room, but Hermione didn't care. All she cared about was her once-crispy, now drenched essay lying in a shriveled, soggy state among the ashes, and blaming someone irrationally for the state of it.

She tasted ash in her mouth as her hair whipped violently around her head when she turned to face her supposed assailant. A hand-me-down button up shirt hung loosely on the wand-holder's petite frame, the sleeve fallen down to her elbow of the arm that she held her wand with, still extended for use. There was a panicked way in which her chest heaved and fell, each rise giving a teasing peek of pale, freckled skin, modestly swollen. Hermione's eyes traveled up to take in the bewildered way her lips were parted, the flush of her face from adrenaline. And despite all the rage and anger bubbling beneath her breast, all Hermione could think of was how beautiful and dangerous Ginny Weasley was.

Ginny must have taken notice of the scowl on Hermione's face and quickly broke into a verbal marathon of apologies. "H-Hermione, I'm so sorry, I tried to help in time," she said breathlessly, too high-pitched for her usual alto voice, "but – it was too late – I didn't know how to help…" She trailed off into nothing. There was silence in the air now, dead and heavy and thick like melted chocolate.

Hermione simply stood there, baffled by the force of the rage in her heart. She loved and hated this girl with all of her being. How could she just let her stand there and make excuses for all the torment she's caused? Help? What kind of help has she ever offered Hermione? Help to become insane? Help to become an insomniac? Help to become every single ridiculous and bleeding cliché in this stupid obsession called love?

A rational Hermione would have told Ginny that it wasn't her fault. It was sleeplessness and absent-mindedness and it wasn't Ginny's responsibility to look after her things. She should have been more responsive. She shouldn't have pulled her chair so close to the fire, or at least she should have folded up her essay as she went like she usually did. There were lots of things to be done to avoid this, Ginny, but it was okay, because nothing in this particular situation was your fault.

But Hermione was not rational. She was angry, but her heart was being torn apart in so many pieces by the way Ginny looked in the dimmed light of the room, how cute it was that her hair was pulled into twin braids, and how badly she wanted to count how many freckles were on the swells of her breasts, that she couldn't form the words that would damage that pretty little face, that reputation of being everyone's sweetheart, when she should have been hers.

"Hermione?" Ginny asked tentatively, extending a hand towards her. "Are you okay? I'm sure your professor will understand about what happened… You could get an extension on it…"

Ginny's warm hand burned Hermione's shoulder. Hermione stumbled backward in shock from the pain and threw all of the ash, all of the dark jealousy and twisted pain, into the words she had written again and again and again.

"I love you, Ginny," she spat in malice, "but you don't seem to feel the same way. And there's not much more I can take of this. So finally, finally," she choked, eyes stinking with embers, "I'm letting you go."

The common room stayed in a stunned silence for only just a minute after both this confession and backwards rejection. Ginny stared at Hermione in horror, face bloodless and hand still extended, shaking, until she slowly drew it back to herself. Hermione tore her eyes away from Ginny's stupid innocence and confusion and hurt and, leaving everything else, ran out of the common room without another word.

She practically crawled into her bed when she finally reached her room, unable to stand the current pulling her away from all that was normal and sane, back into a place that smelled like vanilla and ash and tasted like salt on her tongue. Because if this is what liberation was, why did it wound her so?


End file.
